


in love in love in love

by wordtheef



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (in love!!), Captivity, F/M, Graphic Description, Idiots in Love, Porn, Porn With Plot, Smut, Swordplay, inconsistent point of view because the author is lazy, it’s GOT what can i do, reasonably graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/pseuds/wordtheef
Summary: “Sometime I’d like to touch you, wench.”“Sometime your head will be on a spike, Kingslayer.”





	1. Chapter 1

He cried out, asleep and chained to bitter dreams.

She roused him to half-waking with her hands and feet, but the kick only made him weep more loudly and he still was not conscious. _Stop howling, Lannister!_

Her hands were on his face to slap him and his legs tangled in hers, thrashing in his nightmare, until he caught her and pulled her down, rolling over, swearing oaths and threats.

She couldn’t push him off, couldn’t raise a knee into him, couldn’t get to her dagger, couldn’t stab him anyway without breaking her vow to Catelyn. _Off — off —_

And he woke. “Wench?”

“Kingslayer.” Her voice was thin. “Get away. Let me go.”

He stared at her a moment — pallid from the cell, sunburnt across his nose and cheeks, eyes still confused with dreaming. Then he hitched himself into a different position, tilting nearer, and kissed her.

_No_. She shifted her hips, wriggling to push up and roll them over again, trapping him beneath her body.

Jaime was protesting at the change, saying how he’d barely kissed her _once_ and this was an unjust punishment, he’d thought her a just and righteous swordswench —

She spit.

It landed on his eye and hair and he quieted, making a horrible face instead, catching his breath and staring at her.

Brienne hesitated.

All she had to do was move away. Tie him better. Beat him with her sword until he couldn’t do more than hobble.

She didn’t move at all.

Here was a man between her legs — not a man only but _the Kingslayer._ His body radiated heat everywhere they were pressed together, his back was arched and his hips tilted up with how his hands were still tied behind him.

And what he wanted of her was perfectly clear. 

He was a kingslayer, a murderer, a captive. He hadn’t said one polite thing to her in two weeks.

And yet. 

He hadn’t ever moved to hurt her — not as a man can hurt a woman. She hadn’t ever felt unsafe to be alone with him. He would mock and taunt, he bring a sword against her some day, but when she was in the water he leaned over the boat to help her in, and when she slept he slept too, not kicking the embers into her face, not trying to get under her armor and take what he could ...

He wasn’t moving now; he wasn’t even smiling. He was only looking at her, and hardening under her body with what he saw. Whatever made her heart catch and jolt and thrash like a fish draw into air wasn’t a threat. Not from him.

So Brienne leaned forward and kissed him.

He made a rough noise and kissed back, licking at the seam of her mouth with little strokes until it opened. His hips twitched and rolled — unconsciously, she thought — and she felt her own shifting down, rubbing against him.

She pulled back. She was trembling, she felt it, knew he felt it, beneath her as he was.

Gods, was she frightened? of a _man?_

She would not fear him — she would not fear this.

She bared her teeth and caught up the laces of his filthy tunic in her hands, pulling them through the eyelets, pushing back the sides. 

His chest was streaked with dirt. “You need a bath.”

He stared at her, breath coming light and quick. “As my lady commands. Will she use her tongue?”

“Shut up.” But didn’t she just bend to him — dotting her tongue along his collarbone, longer on neck, biting on his throat? And that was so satisfying she did it again. Scratch of hair, taste of sweat. His pulse thick and hot.

He made a noise and she covered his mouth, rubbing down his chest with her hand. “Kingslayer.” Finely and beautifully made, taut even after hunger and a year in a cage stole away his flesh. What would he be like, unchained?

“Jaime.”

Who cared what his name was? She scratched down his waist, bit him below the ribs. Worked open his trousers and (she couldn’t help it) stared.

He swallowed. “This would be better for us both if I was untied.”

"Stop talking,” she snapped

— which command he immediately obeyed, so thoroughly that she wondered briefly if he had swallowed his wretched, lying, traitorous tongue.

No matter. His cock was pink and damply glistening, and she wasn’t afraid. She ached.

She pulled down her own clothes and straddled his hips, slipping her own fingers first into her body (the Kingslayer made a choked noise) and out of herself again, rubbing herself, using the same motion on him — the base of her thumb calloused, rough, sure.

She wasn’t certain how to do this — but how complex could it be? So. One hand on the ground, one hand holding his cock against her, slow now slow and she shifted down — he moaned like a man in pain — another try and another, and she could take him to the hilt; she could nearly sit down against his body.

Brienne looked.

His eyes were shut, lips swollen and red with where his teeth were biting down against them.

As she looked, he opened his eyes.

She expected him to say — she didn’t know what — something smart. Something rude and maddening.

Jaime said: “Say you’re alright.”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded. “You — you can move now. Please.” And his cheeks darkened, beautifully flushed.

That was a good idea. She tried rocking (Jaime whimpered) and then remembered herself, shifting forward and back like she was riding a horse, rising up and sinking.

Inside her body he responded, twitching as his thighs twitched, trying to arch up and push further into her — trying to roll her on her back, to take contol.

She wasn’t going to allow that. One hand on his chest, one between her legs, stroking her own body until she couldn’t focus anymore on the pattern of things, until she was only grinding down into his body while Jaime swelled and swore and Brienne fell down against him, laughing aloud.

Eventually she rolled off him and stared at his cock, softening and pale and streaked pink with her own blood. 

“You didn’t talk much,” she said.

“Worried you might stop if I did.”

She smiled at that, couldn’t help it: and then she laughed again, smothering it in his shoulder. “Idiot.”

“Wench.”

“My name is Brienne.” He was just as annoying as ever. Maybe more, because now she knew how he looked (smelled, felt, sounded, moved, oh gods) — and now she blushed agonizingly when he looked at her.

“Sometime I’d like to touch you, _wench_.”

“Sometime your head will be on a spike, _Kingslayer_.”

“And you’ll regret never having my hands in your cunt, won’t you? Running up your legs. Holding your hips down while you ride me.”

“A risk I’m willing to take.” She yawned, sitting up. “Come on. Time to go.”

He watched, eyes narrow, as she fixed her armor and slung the swords again on her hips.

It was midday when Jaime’s leg began to drag slightly; it increased; he slowed his gait and then stopped, making a pained face. “Stay put a moment.”

“What?”

“My foot. Something’s wrong. I pulled something.” His hands were tied in front today — per his complaint that she’d pulled his shoulders nearly out of joint, hadn’t she? and was that just and fair treatment of a prisoner? He gestured. “Stepped wrong, maybe.”

She came nearer, bending down. “I can wrap it. Sit down; I’ll take off the boot.”

“Sure,” said Jaime. “Just let me — hold on a moment —”

And he pulled out the sword sheathed at her hip, jumping back as she grabbed for him and missed.

She swore.

He smiled. “Never did understand why some knights wear two swords.”

Brienne raised her arm, holding a block. “You’ll regret that.”

“Not likely. Even tied, I’m better than — fuck!”

She’d missed knocking the sword from his grip while he bragged, caught up in fear she might injure him seriously, and she was furious at herself. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

But he would make others. She moved around him again, forcing him to turn on the defensive, her face grimly blank.

“You grimace before you thrust,” he said. “I noticed that earlier.”

She swung.

“Another miss. I knew women couldn’t fight.”

“If I didn’t need you alive, Kingslayer, we’d see who was better.”

“Cut my bonds, then. I give you permission to try and kill me.” He couldn’t do it alone; the sword couldn’t be gripped below the hilt.

She thrust again — he parried, exposing his side to get the extension — blade scraped against blade and he fought backwards, stumbling down a bank and falling into a stream as she chased him, tumbling after.

Somewhere Jaime had lost his sword. He expected her to stab him right then, but she did not. Instead she put her hands around his throat and squeezed — pushing him down into the water — while he choked and kicked upward, connecting with someplace that made her groan in pain and let go.

He scrambled out from under her, splashing, thinking _Fuck the water is cold, _thinking_ While she’s down, I can_

and just as he reached for her sword, just as she dove for it, just then, they heard a voice calling out above them. “Well met, friends!”

Men. All sorts of men, and five of them — six? — with weapons, and horses, and the red-streaked banners of the battle-mad, wayward Brave Companions.

Jaime said, casual as he could manage it: “You’ve come on me chastising my wife.”

Behind him, the wench hissed.

“Seems odd that word of a Lannister’s marriage didn’t reach Lord Bolton. Odder to me that your woman was doing the chastising. Lost your edge, ser Jaime?”

“We like a good fight. Gets our juices flowing.” He was aware that his boots were leaking water and his toes were turning numb; he was aware Brienne was still behind him, that she had picked up her sword, that his own was somewhere lost in the plants growing low and green along the muddy bank, that he had no hope of getting out of this quickly, or easily, or maybe not at all.


	2. Chapter 2

  
“I’ll take the big bitch first,” said Hoat, “and when she’s good and wet—”

“Sapphires,” said Jaime.

Brienne’s head jerked up so hard it hit the tree behind her. She saw stars. What was that noisy idiot doing? She stared across the fire, smoking and spitting sparks upwards into the dark. It blinded her gaze, she could see nothing.

“What did you say?”

“Sapphires. You know what those are? Sparkly blue rocks. They come from Tarth. You know where my woman comes from? Tarth.”

“Your woman had you tied up and half-drowned in a fucking river. Not sure _she’s_ the woman here. Got a cunt between your legs, Kingslayer? Mind if we check?”

“Oh,” said Jaime. “She’s a woman.” He smiled. “I had her just last night. I told you she’s my wife.”

What the fuck was he doing.

“Lord Bolton knows when a mouse fucks in the dungeon. He would know if the likes of you got married.”

Without moving, Brienne strained to see Hoat. His voice wasn’t quite so certain now, was it? She couldn’t see his face, she didn’t know him. She didn’t know any of them.

But Jaime did.

He said, “Roose Bolton doesn’t have spies in all the septs in Westeros.”

“You’re a liar and a fool. All the same it’s generous of you to loosen her up for us. Can’t let myself owe a debt to a Lannister, can we? How should we repay you, ser?”

Jaime sighed, with great annoyance. “My wife comes from Tarth, which is full of _sapphires_. She is married to a Lannister, and Lannisters are full of gold. You may have whichever you prefer. Or both. Just leave her alone.”

Hoat turned toward Brienne then, and the look on his face frightened her more than his threats of rape. Neither lascivious, nor greedy, nor angry, nor anything else she could name.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

No one heard the words coming from her dry throat; the world was full of Jaime’s voice as he chattered on, licking his mouth and telling lies, lies.

When they stretched out his arm and cut off his hand, he screamed in fear and pain: but Brienne was not surprised at all.

He cried that night.

They had dragged him to Brienne’s tree and tied them together, laughing about a wedding and a bedding. Jaime had the rope around his waist.

“Kingslayer?” She couldn’t manage any more than the hoarse whisper she’d had before; she was so thirsty. “Jaime.”

He looked at her, turned his head, and vomited into the dirt.

Even here his eyes were green as oak leaves; even now.

Nothing he said made sense, nothing. He spoke of burning and green fire; he spoke of standing while a woman screamed.

_I can’t again, _he said._ Don’t let him do it again, I can’t hear it again. _And_ I will speak to Father _and_ Fuck Casterly Rock _and_ He’s only a baby, Cersei. Don’t hurt him any more._

Now and then he woke enough to speak and drink and eat: and then he cried again, because he remembered.

The men laughed. Brienne did not. “Stop that. Stop sniveling. You need to fight back.”

“Fight? And then do what.”

“Live,” she said.

He didn’t reply.

When dark fell and the men fell asleep and the only thing she could see was the embers of the fire, breathing orange and red as it died, the Kingslayer said: “Do you remember the night we married?”

_Married _indeed. But he had said that to protect her and she couldn’t find it in herself to argue — he was sick, wounded, maybe dying, and they were both captives alike.

“You were angry,” he whispered, “when I kissed you.”

“Furious.”

“You kissed me back.”

“_Enough_.”

“Don’t you want me to remember better times? Don’t you want me to have a reason to live?”

“Revenge,” said Brienne, through her teeth. “Live for revenge.”

“You do it for me. You’re my wife.” He was slipping unconscious again; those beautiful eyes were fading.

She wished she could touch him. “Kingslayer? Wake up.”

“Jaime,” he said.

“Jaime,” she said.

  
Someone was screaming, a _baby_ was screaming, and Brienne could only stand and watch. _Queen Cersei_, she tried to say. _My Queen, leave him alone._ Because it was Jaime in pain — she knew it — and she could do nothing, she’d sworn to only stand and wait, and Cersei’s gaze was green as fire ...

“Wench.”

She dragged upwards, twisting against the hands holding her, let go let go —

“Wake, Brienne. You have to wake.”

She woke.

“You’re loud,” said the Kingslayer. “I don’t like it.”

She wept. “They hurt you.”

“They didn’t hurt you,” he said.

Was it a fair trade? Had he intended it? Would he do it again?

He looked so tired.

His face was bruised still, swollen in places from her fists, and more than one green-yellow bruise lay fading along his throat. The marks of her own fingers, her own hands.

Sapphires, he’d said. Sapphires and gold. She’s my wife.

He had told her to give in and let them do what they wanted. Take what they wanted. _What does it matter?_ he said.

Rhetorical.

Think of his face when she sank down onto his cock; remember when she told him to shut up.

_Are you alright? Tell me you’re alright._

He was so close right now, so close, and what did anything matter anymore? She leaned in to find him and met his mouth searching for her in return.

He was harsh with new beard and hot with wanting, and Brienne pushed against him, wanting back as hard as she could. “I wish my hands were free,” she said. “I wish ...”

He kissed her once more — rough and angry — before he sank back against the tree, resting from the constant strain on the ropes.

  
Harrenhal.

Roose Bolton smiled and smiled. He gave her an orange dress and a perfectly inoffensive supper and a dull knife to cut it with, and when he suggested (dully, inoffensively, smiling) that the captives should be murdered and their bodies left to rot along the road — when she clenched the knife and stiffened, ready to plunge it in his neck —

then Jaime put his hand over hers. “You could do that,” he said. “Or you could send a raven to my father. There’s money to be made, Lord Bolton. A corpse will only buy you a war.”

“My men need entertainment,” said Bolton. “Should we cut off another hand for them, ser?”

“I left one in your courtyard,” said Jaime. “They can have it. She and I must return to Kings Landing.”

“You and your wife, yes. Strange that your father did not mention her. Nor do the any of the septons seem to recall such a wedding. Perhaps it was further away.”

“Or perhaps the septon was drunk. It does not matter to me.”

“I am afraid,” said Lord Bolton, “that it will very much matter to the lady.”

They were put in the same cell, some dark windowless place. “A man should be with his wife,” said Bolton — smiling, smiling.

The wench had looked on the verge of tears all day and he truly could not bear it if she cried; it seemed somehow worse than everything else, it seemed offensive, like the sun rose dark.

Now she sat sullen and silent and stiff, looking horrifically ugly — lumpy, swollen face over a dress that was both too short and too tight.

He couldn’t think of anything to say.

His father would be so pleased. Finally found an end to your cleverness? he’d say. Pity it wasn’t five minutes sooner.

And Tyrion ... what would he say? But it was impossible to imagine Tyrion in this situation. He wouldn’t have gone to war, for one — he was no soldier. And he wouldn’t have been captured, wouldn’t have been ransomed — for the simple reason that Tywin wouldn’t pay any.

Jaime would ride out, though. He’d fight armies and cut down kings for his brother.

He cleared his throat. “Do you have any siblings?“

No, she shook her head. Then, truthful to the core: “A brother. He died. And two sisters as well. They were quite young.”

“Oh,” said Jaime.

She said: “Do you miss your family?”

He didn’t answer that, how could he answer that? What would be honest? Even if he wanted to be honest. Even if she wanted to hear it. “Listen,” he said instead. “They’re going to take me out tomorrow. I’m going to go home.”

She went grey. “You’ll leave me here.”

“I owe you a debt, lady Brienne.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Wench,” he said: and the corners of her mouth twitched. “I — I can’t free you. Tell me what to do.”

“Take care of the Stark girls. Find them. Bring them home.”

Jaime nodded, once. He stared at her form. “I could kill you, if you want.”

Her eyes swung round, wide.

“It’s an offer,” said the Kingslayer. “Not a threat. Do you know what they’ll do to you?”

She spent a long time silent, until he would have thought she’d fallen asleep — except ... “You said once that if your hands were free, you would ... that it would be better.”

He made a strangled sound. _Hands_ indeed.

For a long horrible second he wasn’t sure he can manage it, between the sickness and the exhaustion and worry and stress and grief.

Think of _her_, then. Face contorting as she took him inside, whimpering at the effort or the pain or — maybe — the pleasure of it, riding him while he was tied and yet she was no more in control than he was, no more. They’d fallen together, hadn’t they? Tumbled into a stream and into this captivity like she fell on him afterwards, laughing aloud.

He crawled to her and kissed her. “Lay back. No, don’t argue for once — I’m going to give you — something. Trust me.”

The stone floor was hard and cold and the rushes, such few as they were, did nothing but cut his hand and his knees. Nevermind. He pushed up her dress, biting along her thigh, rubbing her over the smallclothes.

He could smell her cunt — thick and rich, dark. He wanted his mouth on it and his hand inside it and neither one of those took much work, one finger and then another while he licked at the clit and below, pushing his tongue inside where his cock had been and tasting — tasting — then a single finger again, slow movements with one joint hooked just right, while he went back to biting and sucking and she made the most delicious sounds.

She pulled his hair and he growled — moved away, while she protested — and found her mouth to kiss her, pushing three fingers into her body rough and hard, finally feeling her tighten and shake, holding his hand in place with her thighs. Long thighs, beautiful legs. He stroked her gentle until she relaxed again, let him free.

He’d thought she would want his cock — he thought he would want to _give_ it — but the aching was strangely disconnected from the woman.

She looked at him with damp eyes, frowned and smiling, and she pulled him down against her for another kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

“Father,” said Jaime.

Tywin was a hard man, not given to useless emotional displays. He stood, when Jaime came in: and then he saw, and he sat back down.

Jaime pulled out a chair. It took him longer than it would a man with two hands.

“What happened?”

“Your former swords captured me.”

“Former? You mean the Mummers.”

“They hunt for Roose Bolton now. Charming man, Lord Bolton. He gave me a meal and a cell and put my wife in a bear pit.”

“Your wife.”

“Nearly,” said Jaime. “As good as.”

“Laying with a woman does not equate to sacred vows.”

“She saved my life,” said Jaime. “Would you prefer a one-handed son or none at all?”

He thought for a moment his father would argue the point, but he said only: “Bring her to see me.”

“She is currently,” said Jaime, “on a quest.”

He went to meet her, not hurrying, not slow — there would be time to rush and time to wait, time for everything, now that she was home.

She met him, guards around and staring. “Ser Jaime,” she said. “I have —“

He kissed her like it was easy, like it was normal, like it was his right: and Brienne kissed him back. Even in front of the guards.

She seemed to realize it a moment later, when he stepped back. A flush crawled up her face. “I have your sword,” she told him.

“I’m more interested in the woman who holds it. Come on, wench. Don’t stop in the courtyard. One would think you’d never seen a castle before —“

“I lost Arya.”

“What do you mean, you _lost_ her? She’s alive?”

“Of course she’s alive,” said Brienne, as stiffly as if he’d insulted every female in the world by suggesting that a single unarmed girl was perhaps incapable of defending herself from wild beasts and wild men. “Why would you think otherwise? Please take back your sword.”

He wouldn’t listen to protests, he wouldn’t listen to arguments, he wouldn’t do anything but stare her down and repeat: “It is yours.”

“I can’t,” she said, and willed him to understand.

“Think of it as a wedding gift,” he said. “From a husband to his wife. A way to do some good in the world.”

They were passing through the first corridors, the words reflected on the stones and echoed.

He was teasing of course, he was always teasing: but the memory of his doing good caught at her throat, and maybe if she started speaking she would bleed out, all over the floor.

“What do you do now?”

“Find Sansa.”

He watched her eat, slowly. She was trying to be polite but obviously hadn’t had a decent meal in — “Did Podrick not feed you?”

“He needs practice.”

Jaime said: “You owe me a debt, I believe.”

“I do.”

“I know what I want.”

Her gaze was hot, anticipatory. “I’d appreciate a bath first, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Jaime. “And after that we can have a conversation.”

There were so many ways to do this but they liked best the way they did it first, with Jaime on his back and she cradling his hips with her legs, leaning forward and kissing him.

“I want this,” said Jaime. “Let me. I need this.”

Noisy, he was _noisy_, and she leaned forward to taste him in her mouth.

She saw now why cats dragged their prey into trees: she could take him somewhere private and feast on his bones, swallow him down while he pleaded and begged for more.

  
When they were calm and clean and dressed again, he said: “You owe me yet.”

“That wasn’t enough?”

When they came to Tywin’s door, when she saw the guards, she held back.

Jaime smiled. “Are you really afraid of my father?”

“Aren’t you?” she said: but he had her by the hand and would not let go.


End file.
